


A whiff of Sulphur

by raiyana



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Camaraderie, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27042637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: a small glimpse of the inner workings of Angband.
Relationships: Gothmog (Lord of Balrogs) & Thuringwethil
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	A whiff of Sulphur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemurious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemurious/gifts).



“You could _weaponize_ that stench,” Thuringwethil greeted, trying not to choke on the fumes as she waved her long hands in front of her face. “And the Master wants you.”

“I _intend_ to, little batling,” Gothmog rumbled, the sound a deep note heard at the creation of the world 

Thuringwethil shuddered, for a moment feeling almost sorry for the hapless soldiers the Master was breeeding.

Another balrog let out a thunderous sulphuric fart, sending her a satisfied grin when she recoiled as the smell hit.

“Fucking orcs smell better than you lot,” she grumbled to herself, flapping her wings for a touch of extra speed as she walked away from the vast cavern that Gothmog and his kin had claimed as their own; the hot water pools they had created smelled almost as bad as their _excretions_ and everyone was usually happy to give the place a wide berth.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Thuri,” Gothmog half-laughed, catching up with her easily. “The lads are only messing with ya!”

“You’re all _terrible_ ,” she scolded, enjoying the heat he gave off as he kept pace with her, those burning eyes unusually bright. “And you’re the worst of the bunch, I’ll have you know,” she huffed, though she didn’t fly off.

Gothmog laughed, a booming sound that echoed down the corridor. Flapping his giant wings, he pretended not to notice the pleasant shiver that travelled down her spine when the heat washed over her. “That’s why I’m their Lord, no?” he teased.

“And why _your_ backside is the one the Master is going to roast,” Thuringwethil replied haughtily.

“Aw, nae,” Gothmog mock-groaned. “Am _so_ scared.” Slapping whatever passed for a backside on a guy who seemed to be made of semi-solid lava that kept cracking to reveal lines of fire in his skin, he laughed uproariously.

Thuringwethil couldn’t hide her smile.

Gothmog lazily flapped his wings again, and she felt her shoulders drop, relaxing into the release of warmth flooding over her with a small sigh.

Despite the smell – and the sometimes singed hair – she found herself somehow fond of the big guy. Somehow.


End file.
